Everything started to crumble the next morning, as if fate had decided to erase the only person who truly understood me from my life. I went to the park as always, waiting for her under the tree where we used to meet. I stood there, staring at nothing, imagining her smile appearing at any moment as she started making fun of something random just to make me laugh. But hours passed, and she didn’t come. I tried calling her; her phone was off. I sent messages that never received a reply.
The following days were the same. No one could tell me what had happened. I asked at her house, but no one lived there anymore, as if her entire family had vanished overnight. That’s when I began to accept that she was gone, ripped from my life without warning, without explanation, without even a goodbye.
The pain weighed on me, as if something inside me was being torn apart. But that emptiness transformed into something else. I felt her absence in every corner of my life, and little by little, I realized that the only thing I could do was hold onto her memory. If she wasn’t here, I had the hope that one day, somewhere, we’d meet again. But by then, I wanted to be someone stronger, someone who didn’t need to depend on anyone to face his own demons.
That’s when I decided I would master my nightmares. Every creature, every shadow, every threat in my dreams would be mine. I would train, challenging my fears night after night, until I could control them. Because if she ever came back, I wanted her to find me ready—and to be able to help her the way she helped me.
From that morning, when I discovered she was gone, my mind couldn’t stop circling one idea: I had to learn to control my dreams. If I could keep calm, understand that everything was just an illusion, maybe I could stop running from those horrors that haunted me every night. The idea seemed simple, almost obvious, but I had no clue how to put it into practice. And I couldn’t stop thinking about that night, because part of me knew it had really happened—it was no illusion.
During the day, I kept repeating to myself: “It’s a dream. Just a dream.” I whispered it while doing anything, as if saying it enough times would embed it in my brain. Sometimes, I said it out loud, as if I could truly convince myself. “It’s just a dream, just a dream,” I repeated in the lonely corners of the house.
But when night fell and the shadows seeped into my mind, everything slipped through my fingers. I tried to remember what I had practiced during the day. I tried to tell myself it wasn’t real, that I could wake up, but the terror was stronger, the creatures more intense. I could barely stay calm long enough to react; my thoughts disappeared, and my reflexive fear took over. It was like trying to hold water in my hands—it slipped away helplessly.
No matter how hard I tried, the fear always came back stronger. Night after night, I woke up drenched in sweat, having failed again to gain the control I had so desperately imagined. It was frustrating. During the day, I could repeat it a thousand times, but in the dream world, everything overwhelmed me. Yet despite every failure, I refused to give up.
Several nights passed before I began to notice a change—small, almost insignificant, but it was there. Every time I closed my eyes and the dream trapped me, it became a little easier to remember the purpose I had set for myself. Although the fear was still there, latent and oppressive, it no longer controlled me in the same way. There was something different in me, something that allowed me to observe the situation without immediately succumbing to despair.
After a while, in one dream, I made significant progress. I found myself in one of those endless dark hallways, with walls stained as if with dried blood. I could hear the grotesque, dragging steps of those creatures approaching, as always. But this time, instead of running, I managed to stay in place, taking a deep breath and reminding myself that it wasn’t real. I noticed how their steps seemed to slow down, as if my calmness weakened their presence, reducing the power they held over me.
Over time, I started experiencing a level of control that had once been unthinkable. In another nightmare, when one of those beings extended its claws toward me, I focused all my mental strength on thinking it couldn’t touch me. And surprisingly, its hand stopped mere inches from my skin, immobile, as if something invisible had stopped it. I felt a strange satisfaction, a spark of triumph amidst the chaos.
Night after night, I gradually gained ground. I began experimenting with other things: changing the direction of the hallways, moving objects with my mind, even making some of those creatures vanish with just a look. It was still incredibly hard to stay firm with each attempt, and sometimes my own fears betrayed me. But for the first time, I felt like I had a sliver of power over my own world.
I was far from mastering it entirely, but those small victories motivated me to keep going, to push a little further each night.
Over time, I started trying something different: before sleeping, I would focus on a single image, a place, or even a specific thought. At first, it was just another attempt to break the cycle of nightmares, something I didn’t believe would actually work. But that night, something changed.
As I closed my eyes, I thought of a peaceful forest with tall trees and the soft sound of rustling leaves. I imagined how the wind moved through them, and I could almost smell the fresh scent of damp earth. When I finally drifted into sleep, there it was—the forest, exactly as I had imagined it. The crunch of leaves under my feet felt real, and though not everything seemed completely lifelike, the atmosphere was just as I had envisioned.
The change was subtle, but it filled me with a kind of confidence I hadn’t felt in a long time. Instead of facing creatures or wandering through dark, unknown places, for the first time, I was the one in control—though only slightly. Each night, I tried the same thing, gradually managing to choose my settings and feeling that, perhaps, I could go even further.
I remembered a particular night when I had managed to lift myself into the air—a dream that seemed to break the rules of my mind. That memory gave me a new goal, an obsession: I wanted to feel what it was like to fly again, and, if I could, to do it better each time until I mastered my movements.
Each night, as I fell asleep with the intention of practicing, the dream always took me to the same place: the backyard of my house—the same spot where that nightmare began, where the moon had loomed like a crushing threat. There it was again, the grass under my feet, and the dark sky above.
At first, I tried to lift myself by focusing all my energy, tensing every muscle as if I could "push" myself upward. The harder I tried, the more I managed to rise, though only a few feet, and the effort left me exhausted. The real challenge came when I attempted to move forward: as soon as I tried to propel myself, my concentration crumbled, and I plummeted, crashing into the ground before even getting off properly.
After several attempts, I began to understand that brute force wasn’t the solution. Slowly, I found a way to lift myself with less effort, maintaining a kind of balance that allowed me to ascend higher without burning through my energy too quickly. This progress let me advance short distances, though I still lacked the control I needed.
When I finally dared to cover more ground, the next challenge was speed: I often went so fast that, before I realized it, I had already crashed into power lines, trees, or even poles that seemed to appear out of nowhere. I moved too quickly, unable to slow down or change direction with precision, and each collision sent me plummeting back to the ground.
I realized I needed a specific space to practice my levitation or flight. Imagining such a place was a challenge in itself. It wasn’t just about changing the setting but also learning to project every detail of that vision before falling asleep and keeping it intact as the dream began. It felt like painting in the air, piece by piece.
As the setting I envisioned began to form, the first thing to appear was the sky—a vast, clear space dotted with faint clouds. Next, on the right side, solid structures began aligning in a row, each separated by a gap that seemed to invite me to use them as markers, like a training ground. Knowing I needed clear reference points to measure my progress and maintain control, I realized I had unconsciously designed them to act as “checkpoints,” places where I could see how far I’d improved in each dream.
Once the space was ready, I launched into practice. To start lifting myself, I tensed every muscle in my body as I had before, though this time, I felt lighter. The ground gradually receded beneath me, but I still struggled to maintain altitude. When I tried to move forward, I lost focus and plummeted again. I couldn’t help but feel frustrated, but I knew it was just a matter of practice.
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After several attempts, I began to control my height with less effort and stay steady. I even managed to move in a straight line for a few meters before losing control, though the problem with speed remained a challenge: I accelerated too quickly and often crashed into the edges of the structures or became stuck between the markers, unable to stop in time.
Over time, each numbered structure became a symbol of my progress. Each time I successfully reached the next one without losing height or veering off course, it felt like a small victory. I started using the gaps between the structures to change direction in midair, flying diagonally and gradually improving my ability to adjust my speed.
Deciding to relinquish control and let my mind surprise me was an experiment in itself. I no longer tried to decide where to begin or where to go; I simply let the dream envelop me, trusting that I could escape if I needed to.
At first, everything was the same: I appeared in the most sinister places my mind could conjure, surrounded by twisting shadows and lurking creatures, ready to catch me. But this time, I didn’t freeze. As soon as they appeared, I was already in motion—dodging, evading. I could feel the fear pulsing within me, but it no longer paralyzed me. It was as if my own instinct to escape and survive confused them. And though they still managed to catch me at times, it was no longer the end. Every second I resisted, every maneuver I perfected, made me stronger.
After weeks of practice, something began to shift. Each night, the dreams that had once been pure chaos turned into a domain I could almost fully control. Flying was no longer an exhausting effort—I could lift myself effortlessly. My movements became fluid, natural, as if I’d always had the power to control every corner of my mind while asleep. I could enter and exit the spaces I created and face my worst nightmares as if they were mere challenges.
One night, floating in that bright, cloud-filled space, I experienced an unexpected sense of peace—something I hadn’t felt in a long time. The control I had longed for was finally mine, and the satisfaction of having tamed my dreams made me smile.
But something still lingered in my mind. That night in the backyard, with the moon descending, the screams, the shadow that touched my shoulder… What if I could do more? The doubt crept into the pride I felt. Maybe—just maybe—it was possible to take things one step further and bring something from my dreams into reality.
The thought was both unsettling and seductive. The idea that I might try, that I could actually succeed, gnawed at me. And though fear lingered somewhere deep within my chest, there was something about the possibility that made me feel alive.
Each night became a new opportunity. Within my dreams, I knew I could control almost everything now. I had a clear goal: to take an object, feel it in my hands, and bring it with me upon waking. The idea of pulling something out of that world, no matter how small, was irresistible—almost like the ultimate test of all the effort I had invested.
I started with simple things: a small rock, a leaf plucked from some tree in my dreams, or even a pencil. I would hold the object, grip it tightly, focusing on every detail—its weight, texture, even the tiniest imperfections—while preparing to wake up. I could feel my breathing slow, reality on the other side calling to me, drawing closer until, in a blink, I was awake in my bed.
But always, always, my hands were empty.
It was frustrating, yes, but also intriguing. I knew I was close—I could feel it in the way my pulse quickened every time I woke up, in the fleeting sense that something had almost, almost crossed the threshold.
One night, without thinking too much about it, I simply let go. I didn’t practice every day within the dream world; it was exhausting, and like anyone else, there were nights when I didn’t dream at all. But that night began without warning. I found myself in an old house, the kind that seemed suspended in time. The air was thick, and the darkness was broken only by the faint light filtering through the broken boards of the windows. The first thing I noticed was the smell—mold and dust, as if no one had stepped inside for decades.
As I moved down a long, narrow hallway, I realized the walls were covered in cobwebs, thick and intertwined, almost like living tissue.
A shiver ran down my spine as I remembered my arachnophobia. I tried to move carefully, avoiding the dense webs, until, without realizing it, my face collided with one of them. The sticky, rough texture froze me in place as the strands clung to my skin. It was then that I heard the sound—soft but constant: the movement of hundreds, perhaps thousands, of tiny legs crawling over the wood and within the walls.
My breathing quickened, and panic flooded me. I tried to rip the web off, but the more I struggled, the more I felt something moving, something closing in. I wanted to run, but my legs felt anchored to the ground. The sound of the spiders grew louder, as if they were just a step away.
I woke up with a gasp, my heart pounding. As I opened my eyes, I realized my room was covered in cobwebs. Thick, real cobwebs hung from every corner, draping over my furniture, with a pair of spiders slowly crawling toward me from the edge of the bed.
I stared at the webs and the two spiders moving toward me. My mind was still trapped in panic, but something inside me told me not to lose my composure. Slowly, I began to breathe more deeply, focusing on the here and now—on the rhythm of my breath and the reality that I was awake. That’s when I noticed the cobwebs seemed to disintegrate, dissolving into the air as fine dust that vanished with every blink. Within seconds, everything was exactly as it had been before: my room, clear and calm, with no trace of webs or spiders.
I sat there in silence, processing what had just happened. My heart was still racing, but this time it wasn’t entirely out of fear—it was mixed with surprise and excitement. I had done it. Although not in the way I had planned, I had brought something from my dreams into the real world, even if only for a moment.
I collapsed back onto the bed, still trying to process it all, and a smile crept onto my face.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. The excitement I felt was like a torrent of ideas and thoughts swirling endlessly in my mind. I stayed awake, replaying every detail of what had happened: how the cobwebs and spiders from my dream had truly appeared in my room and how they had slowly faded away. I tried to decipher what had allowed something from my dreams to take form in the real world, and the only conclusion I could come to was that fear had played a crucial role.
The next day, I could barely focus. At school, during every class, my mind kept drifting back to the same thought. I remembered that first time—the night when the creatures from my nightmare burst forth from my aura. The panic and the sensation of death had been so intense that they seemed to have broken through the barrier between the dream world and reality. And now, it had happened again with the cobwebs and spiders, though on a smaller scale.
Perhaps, I thought, bringing something from my dreams depended on the emotions I associated with it—the connection between my mind and each element of my nightmares.
At lunch, I barely touched my food, fixated on the theory that fear might not be the only trigger but one of many intense emotions. What if I could bring something into the real world using a different feeling? Perhaps something unrelated to terror… something controlled. This theory grew inside me as I walked home, filling me with a mixture of anxiety and excitement.
While heading back, a new question struck me: how long could these things exist outside of my dreams? The cobwebs and spiders had appeared, yes, but they had quickly faded. Why? Was there some kind of limit, like a fleeting reflection of my emotions? Or maybe... was there some sort of strain on me to sustain them here?
I tried to imagine what would happen if I managed to make something last longer. Could there be a way to keep it stable in the real world? Or, like dreams themselves, would they only last for fleeting moments before vanishing? I couldn’t find a clear answer. The more I thought about it, the more it intrigued and frustrated me.
It felt as though every attempt to understand the limit of time left me with more questions. What exactly did it depend on? The object itself, the emotion, my control over the dream… or something entirely different? The uncertainty of not knowing how long anything I brought back would last—or if I could ever make something permanent—felt like yet another barrier on this strange path. And as the sky darkened, I realized that this mystery would be one of the challenges I’d have to tackle, step by step.
With this new theory in mind, I decided to run a few experiments. If fear and intense panic had allowed me to bring things from my nightmares, what would happen if I tried to do the same with different emotions? Could I bring something into the real world that wasn’t tied to fear?
That night, before falling asleep, I focused my mind on something that filled me with calm. I imagined peaceful fields and clear skies, trying to immerse myself in feelings of happiness and serenity. As I entered the dream, I conjured a clear image of a small white flower—something simple and pure that gave me a sense of peace. I held it in my hand, concentrating on every detail: its soft scent, the feel of its petals, the freshness it gave as I inhaled its fragrance.
With the moment etched in my mind, I took a deep breath, carefully held the flower, and focused on waking up. I felt the pull of reality, the transition drawing closer, and when I opened my eyes, there it was—barely visible in my hand: the small white flower, exactly as I had imagined it. For a moment, I stared at it in awe. It wasn’t just an illusion; it felt real.
But, like before, it lasted only a few seconds. Its color began to fade, and in the blink of an eye, it dissolved into the air as if it had never existed. Once again, time had become an obstacle. Though now I could bring things into reality without relying on extreme panic, the duration and size of what I brought back were still problems.
After many nights of practice and concentration, I began to notice progress. At first, I could only manage small objects like the flower, and they lasted mere seconds. But over time, by adjusting my focus, I managed to extend those moments of materialization. It became less difficult each time to make them last a few seconds longer, just enough to see and feel them tangibly in my hands.
I started experimenting with larger objects—books, decorative items—and discovered that the emotions I felt while creating them influenced their duration. It was as if, by staying calm and focused, the objects responded better, anchoring more firmly in reality. With patience, I managed to extend the duration to a couple of minutes, long enough to observe them or hold them completely in the real world before they inevitably faded.
Little by little, each attempt made me feel more confident. They were no longer just small, insignificant items; I even managed to bring a table from my dream, keep it in front of me, and run my hands over its surface before it inevitably disappeared.